


- post hoc - after this -

by otter



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-14
Updated: 2011-08-14
Packaged: 2017-10-22 15:11:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/239405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/otter/pseuds/otter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life, as lived in a minefield.</p>
            </blockquote>





	- post hoc - after this -

Their clothes are strewn across the floor like debris in the wake of an explosion. Daniel's pants are across the room, a boobytrap waiting to ensnare the feet of anyone who tries to make it to the bathroom. Jack's shirt is MIA, and is likely hidden in the dark somewhere; the little medals and decorations pinned to the chest are caltrops, waiting for someone to tread on them.

Taking this into consideration, Jack thinks that it's probably safest for them both to stay in bed. So when Daniel moves to get up, Jack grabs his arm, hauls him back down, wraps him in a steel-banded bear hug and says, "Don't move. Landmines."

It's a less than coherent argument, but Daniel doesn't seem to mind; he relaxes again, letting Jack take his weight. His fingers ruffle through Jack's hair, and when he says, "Landmines, huh?" his lips are moving against Jack's forehead.

Jack grunts in the affirmative and burrows in a little tighter. He takes cover in the space between Daniel's chest and his chin, squeezes in like he's bracing for impact. "Pants," he says, and his voice is muffled by Daniel's skin.

For a moment, Daniel doesn't say anything; he's squeezing Jack back, but not with the same rib-cracking pressure. Jack starts to think it's possible that he's cutting off Daniel's air supply, but then Daniel says, "I don't think you're quite awake, Jack."

"Mmmm," Jack says. He licks at Daniel's collarbone, for no other reason than it tastes pretty good, kind of salty. Feels pretty good, too. The skin is warm, and a little moist from Jack's breath. Jack's back is already aching; it could be from earlier exercise, or it could be because he's holding Daniel way too tight. He relaxes his grip, and the twinge in his back eases a little, but his knee starts up for no apparent reason. He feels very, very old, but is far too comfortable to really be concerned about it.

Daniel says, "Go back to sleep," and his hand skims over Jack's shoulder, against the flat of his shoulderblade, over the planes of his back.

Jack kisses Daniel's throat and obeys, but when he wakes up again, Daniel is gone.

+++

Daniel's forearms are hooked under Jack's armpits, and his fists are clenched together at the center of Jack's chest, over his heart.

It's a stupid way to do this, Jack thinks, because it doesn't leave a hand free for a gun. But it seems to be doing the trick as far as leverage goes, because Daniel is making really good time dragging Jack toward the trees, even though the ground is slick with mud. There's a sound like something boiling over, and Jack has a crazy urge to tell Daniel to turn off the stove before he burns the damned house down, but they aren't in the house, and Daniel isn't cooking -- thank God, because that really would've made this bad situation worse -- and the noise is actually bullets driving into the boggy ground around them.

One of Daniel's thick knuckles is digging into Jack's sternum with every lurching step they take, and the comfort Jack draws from that touch is a little absurd, considering. He wants to touch too, cover Daniel's fingers with his own and maybe say something witty and slightly lewd to stop Daniel from overthinking. His mouth is busy with panting for breath, though, and his hands are occupied with holding his guts inside his body.

"Just a little further." The words ride out of Daniel's mouth on a panting breath, and they're barely understandable, especially with all the ringing in Jack's ears.

Daniel heaves again, harder, and his arms tighten around Jack's chest, squeezing the air out of him. The weak sunlight that left them exposed out in the field gives way to an even dimmer light within the cover of the trees. The shadows of leaves shift across everything, and it's like being at the bottom of the swimming pool, looking up.

Daniel props them both up against a tree; he presses in tight and holds Jack up with his own weight. They're both tired and filthy, Daniel looks like shit and Jack's vision is getting a little wobbly. There's a squishy feeling over Jack's fingers, like his intestines are finally giving in to gravity and slithering out of his body, but when he looks down it's only blood on his hands, and the cold, slimy feeling is just Daniel's muddy vest brushing Jack's knuckles.

Daniel says, "We should be safe enough in here until Teal'c can swing by and pick us up," but a spray of bullets hits a tree a few feet away, just to prove him wrong. Daniel looks back toward the battlefield, then twists his head toward the forest, spots the same thing Jack just did: a cluster of huge rocks, a natural bunker in which to wait out the war. Daniel looks back at Jack, says, "Think you can walk that far, or should I drag you?"

Jack looks at the rough ground between here and there -- rocky, and with lots of very inconvenient scrub -- then eyes up the distance. It looks like a thousand miles from here. Cakewalk.

Jack slings an arm around Daniel's shoulders, and Daniel grabs that hand, then wraps his other arm around Jack's waist. Their feet sink with every step into a deep bed of twigs and dried pine needles, and the crunch-rustle-crunch of their passage is like being a kid again, walking home along sidewalks so thick with fallen leaves that Jack can imagine he's strolling down a red carpet, a triumphant king being welcomed back to his own kingdom.

Then Jack steps on something harder, and it doesn't crunch, it clicks.

Daniel's still pressing forward, so when Jack tries to stop with one foot firmly planted in the leaves, the momentum nearly carries them both to the ground, nearly kills them.

Daniel says, "Jack, come on," and he's frowning because he absolutely doesn't get it, didn't hear the click that's like the starting of a stopwatch, a count of exactly how long a man can stand still. The number Jack ends up with will also be exactly how long he has left to live.

Jack sways a little precariously; this sudden sign of mortality -- on top of all the other annoying reminders he's had today about physical vulnerability -- has given him an adrenaline-induced headrush, and he feels a little more dizzy than he was already. He says, "Landmine."

Daniel pauses, just for a moment, and his expression is a little baffled and outraged, as if Jack has just sprung a pop quiz on him. "Um... pants?" he says, like he thinks Jack's using some sort of code word or playing a strange word-association game.

"No," Jack says, "*Landmine.*" He points down at his foot, and just in case Daniel doesn't understand *that* either, he says, "Right there."

Daniel says, "Oh," the way other people say, 'I knew that, I was just seeing if *you* knew that.' "Um, okay." He gets down on all fours and brushes away all the leaves from around Jack's foot, and then he's down on his belly in the dirt, unfolding his utility knife and staring at Jack's boot like he really wants to put it in a museum or something. One of his hands wraps around the back of Jack's ankle like it's supposed to be holding the foot still, but through the leather of his boot Jack can feel Daniel's thumb stroking up and down. Daniel's other hand is digging with the blade of the knife, scooping dirt away from the mine.

"Daniel," Jack says, "That's kind of a stupid idea."

Daniel says, "What?"

"Your face being two inches from the explosive device," Jack clarifies. "And poking it with a sharp object isn't the smartest move I've ever seen, either." Jack tries to stay steady on his feet, but he sways again. Daniel's hand tightens on his ankle, as if Daniel can hold him up with just those fingers.

"I'm not *poking* it," Daniel says, and the knife is twisting and digging without pause while Daniel makes absolutely no attempt to back away from the bomb.

Jack snorts, which kind of hurts. He hadn't realized before that snorting involves so many stomach muscles, some of which he isn't sure he still has. It's going to be an absolute bitch developing his abs again, assuming of course that he doesn't fall over and die right about now. "You know," he says, "it's funny how you've got everybody convinced you're actually a genius. I've met lemmings with better survival instincts."

"Please," Daniel says. "Is that the best metaphor you can come up with?" He's peering down into his little hole now, like he's hunting wabbit or something, and his voice is a little muffled by the ground when he says, "It's really small. Like the size of a soda can, and the actual charge is buried. There are pins up top that obviously act as a pressure plate."

"Obviously," Jack says. "So, now that you're a munitions disposal expert, what exactly is your big plan?"

Daniel pushes all the dirt back into the hole again to keep the mine from moving, and he hauls himself up to his knees and makes a "hmmm" noise. His hand is still on Jack's ankle, and now he's stroking in a sort of pornographic way, and he's on his *knees* for God's sake.

Jack thinks about asking for one last blow job, but he figures the joke is probably in poor taste, considering how he's sort of bleeding to death and probably about to explode, too.

"We should replace your weight with something else heavy... like a rock, something that'll hold the pins down."

Jack leans on Daniel's shoulder with one hand, trying to stay upright, but there are stars dancing around at the edges of his eyes and they're like little constellations; he'd give them names, if he still remembered enough Latin.

Instead he says, "Who're you, Indiana Jones?"

Daniel says, "No," and he's already looking around for a big enough rock. "I'm much better looking than him."

"Oh, yeah," Jack says. "You know, I've seen people try the ol' switcheroo on pressure-plated mines before. They pretty much always end up in very little pieces, no matter how careful they are. And they weren't dealing with mines built by *aliens*, either."

Daniel ignores this pessimistic remark entirely. "Hang on," he says, and then he scrambles up and sprints away, toward the rock bunker. He disappears behind it, head down as he scans the ground in search of something -- a stone, a brick, an Acme Bomb-Defusing Kit -- and for just a moment, he's out of sight.

Jack takes a second to think about it. There's a sound of moving rocks from where Daniel is, like he's searching through a pile for just the right rock, maybe some sort of magical anti-bomb rock. Jack has no idea. He's cold and tired and he can't really feel his toes anymore, and from the sounds of it, the battle they're running from is steadily migrating toward their position. He seriously considers just lifting his foot.

But then Daniel is racing toward him again with a collection of stones cradled awkwardly in his arms, and Jack has hesitated a moment too long, and the chance has passed. He doesn't take the time to mourn the missed opportunity, because he doesn't really like the idea of dying all that much anyway, and he has a suspicion that Doctor Howell has just been waiting for the perfect opportunity offer Daniel a nice sugary-sweet sympathy fuck.  
"Daniel," Jack says, "I hate to point out the obvious, but I think the war will be arriving in a few minutes."

Daniel is kneeling again, and nonchalantly untying Jack's bootlace, as if they aren't in the middle of a war zone on top of a landmine. Usually when Daniel unties Jack's bootlaces, it's just because the boots are a serious obstacle to getting Jack's pants off and eventually getting Jack off, too.

Daniel says, "Don't rush me," and carefully tugs at the lace from the bottom until it whips free of the boot entirely. He tosses it aside and works open Jack's boot with his fingers, pulling the tongue forward, and then he clamps one hand down over the arch of Jack's foot, with his fingers pressing down against the edges of the boot's sole. "Okay," he says, "now, very slowly, pull your foot out." He makes the request -- well, order, really -- sound very casual, like 'pass the gravy, Jack,' or 'yes, touch me there again.'

Jack says, "Are you nuts?"

And Daniel says, "Yeah, probably," to which there really is no response.

Jack braces a hand on Daniel's shoulder again and very slowly pulls his foot out of the boot. Daniel maintains a steady pressure on the boot, compensating for the loss of Jack's weight, and in the end Jack's standing there in one boot and one sock and his chances of survival, to be entirely honest with himself, not actually improved all that much.

Daniel squeezes rocks into Jack's boot, one at a time, very precisely, until he's balanced out the weight and he isn't pressing down with his hand at all anymore. Then he crowds the rest of the rocks in around the boot, just to make sure it doesn't shift or tip, and then he stands back and surveys his handiwork with the satisfied air of a man who's managed a herculean task, like fixing a leaky pipe or building a bookcase without consulting the directions.

"It would've been nice to get my boot back," Jack says, and he might have wiggled his toes to illustrate the point, except that he really can't feel them anymore, and the world is going kind of tilty. His hand is still clamped to his stomach, but the other one is hanging limply at his side, and it's not really paying any attention to Jack's wishes, either.

Daniel scoops that hand up for him, slings Jack's arm around his own shoulders, and says, "Well, watch where you step next time. Mines I can handle, but you step in anything smelly and you're on your own."

Jack says, "You're a heartless man, Daniel," but it comes out a little slurred. His mouth tastes like blood. He decides that this day has pretty much sucked all around, and he'd like a do-over.

When the rings drop down on them like a slightly ominous elevator from Heaven, Jack is surprised, but only because his luck usually isn't this good.

+++

When Jack finally gets out of bed, the sun is forcing its way in with a gold-edged shoulder against the window. There are clothes on the floor, and a pair of pants are lingering in the doorway, like they can't decide if they're coming or going.

Jack feels like that too, a lot of days.

In the hallway, the air is still cool and fresh with a midmorning breeze that's blowing through from the open patio doors. There's a smell of ginger, coconut and turmeric coming from the kitchen. Jack figures this means that Daniel has ordered take-out from the great Thai place on Manchester, because if Daniel had tried to cook it himself, then Jack probably would've been woken by the smoke alarm, or possibly the blazing inferno.

Jack's not much better, of course, and that's why he does the majority of his cooking outdoors, where the odds of him burning the house down are much lower.

Daniel strolls into the kitchen when Jack is in the middle of of gathering important intelligence regarding the contents of the take-out bags on the counter. He runs a hand across Jack's lower back as he passes, one finger dragging along the waistband of Jack's boxers while the others find warm skin instead.

"You sleep okay?" Daniel asks. He's already digging in the cupboard above the sink, pulling out prescription pill bottles and lining them up at the edge of the counter like toy soldiers.

"Fine," Jack says, and he isn't just being stoic. Though he's not usually stoic anyway; that's more Daniel's thing. Jack's the type to complain loudly about needles and pills and even stethoscopes.

Daniel portions out the medications neatly, and finally drops six pills into Jack's palm, and a glass of water into Jack's other hand, and then starts opening up the bags and pulling out styrofoam containers. Jack swallows his pills and watches Daniel scooping food out onto plates, which is a very Daniel thing to do, seeing as it flies in the face of all practical logic, which dictates that it's easier to just eat out the box. Daniel uses plate, knife and fork to eat pizza, too, but Jack suspects that it's all just to annoy him, and that Daniel is secretly at least as much of a slob as Jack is.

When Jack puts the glass down and leans against the counter, Daniel doesn't look up from his task, but he says, "Go sit down. You want chicken in yours?"

Jack says, "Nah," and he goes and sits down. Daniel brings the plates over a few minutes later, and he sits down too, starting in on his curry and rice before his ass has even hit his seat. Jack finds that he's about that hungry, too, but he can't hunch over his plate and shovel the food into his mouth -- as is the custom among his people -- because of the hole in his gut and the twenty pounds of bandaging and medical tape holding him together.

Daniel says, "Pass the peanut sauce," in sort of the same tone of voice that most people say things like, 'please, take me now,' and 'harder, harder!'

Jack can't decide whether this tone of voice means that Daniel is coming onto him, or whether Daniel just *really* likes peanut sauce. Maybe both.

Jack says, "You're staying tonight, right?" Their fingers touch when he passes the peanut sauce.

Daniel says, "Yeah," and is definitely pretty into that peanut sauce.

the end


End file.
